


The Sensible, Normal Thing

by malacophilous (orphan_account)



Series: The Dhampir Cycle [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Closeted Character, Coming of Age, Dhampir, M/M, Mutually Unrequited, Original Character Death(s), Sexual Identity, Siblings, Time Skips, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vampirism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-17
Updated: 2011-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:16:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/malacophilous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's not human. All he can do is try his best.  First fic in the Dhampir Cycle; written pre-S2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sensible, Normal Thing

_I crept behind It, and gave It my knife; but the knife went through It, empty as the air._

-Bram Stoker, _Dracula_

‘But what should I do?’  (He had cut his hand on a tool in art class, and hadn’t flinched, sucking on the cut until it disappeared.  Someone had seen.  He had lied, avoiding the subject.)

 

Harry, who was lying on her stomach on the porch, looked up from her comic.  ‘Well, I dunno, John, you could just do what Dad does, _like a normal person._ ’  (She meant look at them, lull them into a certain sort of peace until they forgot the problem, until it was no longer important.)

 

‘But it’s not normal,’ John muttered, scuffing his trainers on the front walk.  ‘That’s the problem.’

 

 

When John was five, his father took a crackle-spined old book down from the high shelf in his study.

 

‘This,’ he said, pointing to a strange illustration amid the foreign script, inked with vibrant colours and uneven lines, ‘is what you are.’

 

‘I don’t look like _that_ ,’ said John, wrinkling his nose.

 

‘Dhampir,’ said his father.  ‘Can you say it?’

 

‘Damn-peer,’ John attempted.

 

His father laughed.  ‘Close enough.  Do you know what it means?  _To drink with teeth._ ’

 

‘Was Mummy one, too?’  John only had a vague concept of his and Harry’s mother, having only seen pictures of her as far as he could remember; John didn’t quite grasp yet that pictures could have been real people once, who walked around and took baths and looked at things.  He knew she had been blonde and fair, with blue eyes just like his except without the gold bits, and that she wore a ring on her finger that Dad had given her.

 

‘No,’ said his father, closing the book.  ‘Only you and Harry.’

 

John looked up at his father; his tanned face, his dark, curling hair, the shadow round his jaw where his beard would be if he didn’t shave it off every morning, if he let it stay there after it grew back every night.  ‘Are you one too, Dad?’

 

‘No, son,’ his father replied, rumpling John’s hair.  ‘I’m something a little different.’

 

 

John, then twelve, pelted through the wood behind the house, angry tears streaking his face.  They had laughed at him again that day, the other boys in his class.  They thought he was poor because he never brought lunch; they mocked him because his father was from Serbia, calling his family terrible names.  They laughed at his tinted glasses, but whenever John took them off even unnatural light was unbearable and his head screamed with pain.

 

He couldn’t take it anymore, he _hated_ it.  Why had he been born the way he was?  Why couldn’t he just be normal, like his mother?  She had been so beautiful, and had worked at a normal bookshop with other normal people in their normal village.  Why had she had to go abroad, why had she had to marry his father?  Why had she given birth to John, and then so carelessly died afterwards, leaving him alone with only Dad and Harry, who were perfectly fine with being... with being _freaks?_

 

John stopped running only when the stitch in his side became too sharp for him to breathe properly.  He sat down hard on a fallen tree, wiping his nose on his shirtsleeve, trying to calm down, trying to be sensible.  Harry was always saying that he was sensible (even if she rolled her eyes when she told him).

 

Right.  Fine.  He was being bullied.  That didn’t make him weak, or stupid.  He would talk to Dad about getting sent off to school somewhere else next term.

 

That was the sensible, normal thing to do.

 

 

Dinner that night was tense.

 

‘Why do you want to _go off_ to school?’ Harry grumbled.  ‘What, we’re not good enough for you, now?’

 

‘Harry,’ said their father warningly.  ‘It’s John’s decision.’

 

‘I should get to go off to school, too, then,’ Harry said, annoyed.  ‘I should be able to go somewhere with dormitories and uniforms, too.’

 

‘You’d have to wear a skirt,’ John noted, eyes on his food.  ‘You hate skirts.’

 

‘Shut up, John.’

 

‘I’m only saying!’

 

‘Hush,’ said their father over their sniping, sounding tired.  ‘There’s no point in arguing; the decision’s already made.  Now, be quiet and finish your blood before it gets cold.’

 

Harry and John both stared at their hands in their laps, apologetic.  ‘Yes, Dad.’

 

 

John’s sister came out at Christmas dinner, when they got to use the special crystal wineglasses, when he was fourteen and she was fifteen.

 

‘By the way,’ she said, setting aside her napkin, ‘I’m a lesbian.’

 

‘I see,’ said their father, swirling the contents of his glass.  ‘Anyone special up at school?’

 

‘There’s a girl in her last year I’ve been having a go at for the past three terms,’ said Harry shamelessly.

 

‘Well, I’m glad you’re discovering yourself,’ said their father, genuinely pleased.  ‘Good on you, Harry.’  He glanced at John, who was staring into his own glass as if it had personally offended him.  ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate her, son?’

 

John pushed his chair back from the table and stood up.  ‘’M not hungry.  Going to bed.’

 

‘John, don’t be like that,’ said Harry loftily, crossing her arms, ‘just because you’re ashamed of yourself.’

 

John whirled on her.  ‘I’m not ashamed of myself, I’m ashamed of _you lot!_ ’

 

‘John,’ said their father, sounding tired.  ‘It’s Christmas.’

 

‘You don’t understand,’ said John, shaking with anger.  ‘Neither of you!  You’re perfectly happy to be abnormal, aren’t you?’

 

‘Being normal is boring,’ said Harry, licking a drop of blood off the edge of her glass.

 

‘Fuck you,’ John said under his breath, stomping off to his bedroom.

 

 

‘You’re gay, too, you know.’

 

It was summer hols of the following year.  They were walking the dogs.

 

John turned bright red, glaring at his sister.  ‘I am not!’

 

‘Boys with older sisters are more likely to be gay, I read that somewhere.  And I’ve seen how you look at Kevin from up at the big house.’

 

John scrambled for a believable excuse.  ‘I... like his hair.’

 

Harry laughed.  ‘Straight boys don’t look at someone like that because they _like their hair_ , John.’  She patted him on the shoulder.  ‘But it’s okay, you know?  You don’t have to hide it, I don’t care.  Dad doesn’t care.’

 

‘I care,’ said John miserably, blinking uncomfortably over his new contact lenses.  ‘I care awfully.’

 

‘You’ll get used to it.  And hey,’ she smirked, ‘he does have great hair.’

 

John laughed despite himself.  ‘You’re terrible.’

 

They walked for awhile, the corgis trotting happily in front of them at the end of their matching leads.

 

‘Ever thought about drinking from him?’

 

John blanched.  ‘What are you _saying_ , Harry?  No!  God, no.’

 

She shrugged.  ‘I only wondered.  I’ve drunk from Georgia.’

 

John frowned.  ‘Who’s Georgia?’

 

‘My girlfriend, nitwit.’

 

‘I thought her name was Elizabeth.’

 

‘Elizabeth was last year, John.’

 

‘Then who was... gosh, what was her name, Patricia?’

 

‘Pomona,’ Harry corrected.  ‘She was just a phase during exams.’

 

John sighed.  ‘Did you gnaw on all of them, too, or is Georgia a special case?’

 

Harry smacked him playfully on the arm.  ‘No, idiot.  Well,’ she paused, snickering.  ‘I do sort of gnaw on everyone, don’t I?  Think you might be onto something.’

 

‘You’re a horrid slag,’ said John brightly.

 

‘Happily so.  But seriously, what about it?’  Harry elbowed him, waggling her eyebrows.  ‘Kevin, eh?  _Phwoar_.’

 

John grimaced.  ‘Don’t say phwoar at Kevin, Harry, it’s not polite.’

 

‘Fuck politeness.’

 

‘Don’t say fuck, either,’ said John without much feeling.  ‘We’re passing the church.’

 

Harry dutifully flipped off John and the church in one go.  ‘So there.’

 

 

‘I got into Barts,’ John told his father, who had not aged.

 

‘Well done, John!  I’m so proud of you.’

 

‘It’ll be nice to help people,’ said Harry, knowing all about John’s massive guilt complex, ‘won’t it?’

 

‘Exactly,’ said John, smiling.

 

‘Nice, juicy people full of blood,’ Harry added, rubbing her hands together excitedly.

 

John pinched the bridge of his nose.  ‘I kind of hate you right now, Harry.’

 

 

And yet.

 

When John got his deployment orders, he called Harry first.

 

‘Afghanistan,’ he said without even a hello.

 

‘You’re insane,’ said Harry for the hundredth time since John had enlisted.  He could hear the corgis barking in the background on her end of the line.  ‘You’re mad-fucking-bonkers, John, and I’ll never forgive you.’

 

But she wasn’t serious.  In fact, she sent him care packages as often as she could, full of freeze-dried packets of blood which John reconstituted in water, not wanting to drink from his fellow soldiers, knowing it would cause too much trouble to pick off the locals.  It was terrible stuff, the dried blood, all watered-down and without the proper aftertaste of plasma, but John drank it cold, like repentance.

 

 

John spent seventeen hours crouched behind a dune with his kit, attempting to save a soldier whose foot and lower calf had been lost to a mine.  John’s shoulder was clotted with blood and pain; he’d been shot before he’d even found the wounded soldier but he didn’t care, he had to do his job.

 

‘Watson,’ said the man through clenched teeth—but he was really just a boy, wasn’t he, only nineteen and barely needed to shave, ‘come on, Watson, just leave it.  ‘S a miracle I’ve lasted this long.  Go back.’

 

‘No,’ said John fiercely, trying to get his radio to work, knowing it was broken, knowing his efforts were fruitless.  He screwed up his eyes against the sun; he’d never fully adjusted to not wearing his contacts.  He damned his shoulder, damned the bullet that slackened his grip and made him unable to carry his fallen brother-in-arms, damned it for blocking the healing process because he was empty, hungry, dry.  ‘No, we’re going to get back to base.  Trust me.’

 

‘Watson, it’s no use!’  The boy sighed, frustrated, blinking tears from his tired eyes.  ‘Sorry.  I’m sorry, you’ve... done your best, but ’m starting to fade.  I can feel it.’

 

‘ _No_ ,’ John repeated, clutching his fellow soldier’s hand.  ‘We’re going to make it back.’

 

The boy’s tears left shining trails in the dust caked on his face.  ‘Let me die, Watson.  It’s all that’s... left t’ do.’

 

John had sworn to himself he wouldn’t, he _couldn’t_ do what his body was urging him to do.  It was immoral, it went against everything he’d taught himself about how to be a good person, a normal person.

 

He was so hungry it hurt.

 

‘Have you got... a sister, Watson?’

 

John frowned.  ‘Year older than me, yeah.  Why?’

 

‘Got a li’l sister,’ said the boy, his voice thick and quiet.  ‘Jus’ seventeen.  She’s gettin’ married at th’ end of th’ month.’

 

‘Bit young to get married, in my opinion,’ John said, trying to smile, trying to comfort him.

 

‘Yeah, well.  They’re... they’re good f’ each other, I’ve met him an’ all.  One of th’ lads.’

 

‘That’s good,’ said John, still clutching his hand, stroking his fingers in an attempt to soothe him.

 

‘Said she’d send photos of th’ dress,’ he said, trembling harder than he had before, as if he were unbearably cold.  ‘You’ll hafta tell me... if it looks well on her.’

 

‘I will,’ said John, biting his lip, blinking hard against the sun.

 

‘Let... let me die, now, all right?’

 

No, John wouldn’t, he couldn’t give in to that.  He was a good person.

 

‘Watson.’

 

He was a _normal person._

 

‘Please, Watson.’

 

John felt dizzy with hunger and nausea, leaning down.  ‘Look at my eyes,’ he said, and the boy did, his own eyes sliding out of focus as John distracted his mind, dulled the pain, made him ready.

 

‘’S nice,’ the boy whispered.  ‘Soft.’

 

‘Yes,’ said John, lowering his face to the boy’s neck, feeling his teeth lengthen behind his gentle smile.  ‘Go to sleep, soldier.  Your work is done.’

 

When it was over, when the boy lay dead and painless at his feet, John felt his shoulder moving, flesh churning under his shirt.  The bullet was purged, dropping to the ground, the wound it had left solid and whole again, but for a round, puckered scar.

 

John looked down at the bullet, which had fallen inches from the boy’s outstretched hand.  He followed the line of the boy’s arm up to his shoulder, to his face, his blank, staring eyes, and was instantly sick.

 

 

Over the next month, living in a terrible London hotel room with scant furniture and even less hope, John learned to stomach proper food.  Curtains tightly closed, he started his day with an apple and tea; they were simple, easy to digest.  He hated the taste and the gritty feel of the apple in his mouth, but the tea was all right.  Chewing, he realised, would take some work.

 

He was going to be good.  He was going to be _normal_.

 

Everything would take work, from now on.

 

 

John walked through the park with his unnecessary cane, thinking about what his therapist had written.  _Still has trust issues._   If only it were that simple.

 

‘John?  John Watson?’

 

And then he was at Barts—God, it had changed—and there was that strange, prying, terrifyingly fascinating man.  Sherlock Holmes.

 

John liked him at once, behind the fear of discovery.  Sherlock was blunt; Sherlock was intelligent.

 

And more than that, God help him, John heard his sister saying in his mind, _He does have great hair._

 

 

Sherlock barely slept.  Sherlock barely ate.  Sherlock kept the curtains drawn, kept the doors locked, and aside from the occasional invasion of privacy to prove a point, kept to himself.  So, to sum up: just like John.

 

He was incredibly easy to live with, and John had to remember that normal people would find Sherlock infuriating, and that John needed to alter his behaviour accordingly.  Normal people, after all, would not say ‘that’s amazing,’ they would say ‘piss off’.

 

Normal people wouldn’t go tearing after Sherlock and shoot a man in cold blood to save the blunt, intelligent, gorgeous bastard’s life.

 

John tried to comfort himself with the fact that if he couldn’t be normal, at least he could be good.


End file.
